


When The Fear's Thicker Than Air

by BrokenHazelEyes



Series: OT4- Greg/Ed/Sam/Spike [17]
Category: Flashpoint
Genre: Asphyxiation, Buried Alive, Coffin/Casket, Greg kicks a lot of stuff, Kidnapping, Other, Protective Ed, Protective Greg, Protective Sam, Spike Whump, The Author Regrets Everything, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-09 09:07:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4342511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenHazelEyes/pseuds/BrokenHazelEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Greg?” He asked before the other man could speak, and he could tell he was on speaker by the relieved exhales on the other side. <br/>“Oh thank God,” the negotiator whispered back, and Spike barely heard him but he could still pick out the array of emotions that came along with the words. It was like a punch straight to the gut. “Spike, are you okay?” <br/>“I’m not hurt,” Spike assured him, “I’m in a wooden box—it kind of looks like a coffin. But I can’t push the top off or kick any of the sides out.” He let the words sink in—because he didn’t want to say it aloud, it would only drive him closer to insanity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When The Fear's Thicker Than Air

**Author's Note:**

> It's bad...when an author laughs at their own work... 
> 
> Anyway, please leave feedback (longing looks at comment section) as it's very appreciated and it lets me know that you want more! It's a win-win! Thank you so much to everyone for reading and giving feedback, I love you all. :D
> 
> Anyway, a special thanks to Siennavie who inspired this story--I hope it lives up to your expectations! 
> 
> Everyone, have an awesome day and I hope to see you again!
> 
> A/N: I do not own Flashpoint nor the characters nor do I make a profit off my writing. However, please don't repost anywhere as it's still my writing. Thank you!

Spike’s mind was like a train—wholly focused in a single direction and unable to halt quickly from break-neck speeds, carrying both the abilities to help and the danger of jumping the tracks and leaving a mess of twisted metal in its wake. That’s why his thoughts raced a thousand miles per hour as his eyes blinked wide; but there was nothing but darkness and the aroma of fresh dirt. His hands reached out instinctively, searching for anything now that his eyes had failed him, and his hands jolted back as rough wood grazed his palms.

Taking a deep breath, Spike raised his arms up and pressed against what he wished was the open sky. Instead, more wood—not moving a centimeter—met him. He could feel it under his back, too, and the bomb tech squeezed his eyes shut—it wasn’t like he could see anything.

Think, he hissed to himself, and shuffled him limbs to try and finalize the image forming in his brain. Something cold hit one of his fingertips, and Spike grasped it warily before tracing the lines of the object. He suppressed the shudder his body tried to contort into, the years of bomb training coating his mind like armor, and found a seam running along the object’s edge.

It opened under his attentions, and the small space he was in was illuminated with blinding, artificial light. It hurt his eyes, but it confirmed his fears. The wooden coffin looked so much worse lit up, and he flicked the phone closed—he couldn’t waste the battery, his mind spun; it was already coming up with answers and questions and recalling everything he’d learned.

Spike tried kicking the top of the casket again, putting all his strength behind him, but it didn’t move. So he tried the sides too, desperation creeping up on him along with the threat of oxygen deficiency, but they didn’t move and his knees hit the lid painfully when he tried kicking the board he was lying on. His hands searched for any openings, any latches, but all he found were splinters.

Head smacking painfully against the wood as he went limp, Spike remembered to breathe slowly and his lungs burned but he tried to ignore that. He didn’t want to talk—didn’t want to waste the breath to ramble to himself.

The phone vibrated in his hand, the ringing bouncing off the walls of the casket so loudly that Spike thought his eardrums would burst. He opened the flip-phone again and read the memorized number, pressing it up to his ear thankfully.

“Greg?” He asked before the other man could speak, and he could tell he was on speaker by the relieved exhales on the other side.

“Oh thank God,” the negotiator whispered back, and Spike barely heard him but he could still pick out the array of emotions that came along with the words. It was like a punch straight to the gut. “Spike, are you okay?”

“I’m not hurt,” Spike assured him, “I’m in a wooden box—it kind of looks like a coffin. But I can’t push the top off or kick any of the sides out.” He let the words sink in—because he didn’t want to say it aloud, it would only drive him closer to insanity.

There was the sharp, blunt noise of something being kicked and Spike jolted back in surprise—limbs crashing against the wood and he bit his cheek to keep the sound of pain buried in his throat. Greg didn’t talk next, it was Ed and he heard Sam in the background helping—he assumed—Winnie trace the call.

“Hey buddy, sorry about that,” Ed said, keeping his voice bubbly and bright and Spike winced because he’d known the man long enough to know what was artificial and what wasn’t. “Any clue to where you were taken?”

“None,” Spike told him sadly, “The last thing I remember was falling asleep in my bed.”

The bang of heavy-grade boot against metal sounded again, and there was a muffled conversation as Spike felt along the coffin again.

“The cell signal’s bouncing around, isn’t it?” Spike asked, blinking at the darkness and trying to pretend that he was curled up between his lovers.

“Don’t worry,” Ed told him, the muffled conversation gone, “We’re working on it. Now, can you hear anything? From outside?”

Ears trained for the slightest noise, Spike tried to focus but it was all silence—an all-consuming silence.

“No,” He said dejectedly, “I can’t hear anything. Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Ed told him, and there was the squeak of a chair as the chatter of strokes on a keyboard drew closer. “Leave the phone on, but I want you to try and sleep, okay?”

_To save air_ , Spike thought to himself with his lips pressed tight, _so I don’t panic_.

“Yeah, okay,” Spike agreed, wanting to curl up into a ball on his side but there wasn’t enough room for him to stretch out, let alone flip over. “Just—shout if you need me.”

“We will,” Ed promised, “We’ll be there soon, okay Spike?”

The bomb tech nodded, closing his eyes against the blackness, and carefully placed the phone by his head—close enough he’d hear it. He could just barely make out the voices of his team, and it was comforting to pretend he wasn’t alone.

They’d find him.

~~His lungs sang a different story~~.

 

* * *

 

When Spike woke up, his entire body was aching but there was nowhere to stretch. He realized, quickly, that he’d woken up from his name being called over the phone so the bomb tech snatched it up and pressed it against his ear—blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

“Yeah?” He answered, not bothering to open his eyes because he couldn’t blink the blurriness away if there was nothing to see.

“How are you holding up, Spike?” Greg asked, voice far from calm, but at least he wasn’t taking it out on the furniture anymore.

“I’m still fine, boss. Any progress on that phone trace?” Spike answered, feeling lightheaded but it wasn’t enough to scare the others over.

“We called in a couple other techs from the other teams,” Greg told him, skirting the answer, “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”

_Are you trying to reassure you or me?_ Spike wondered, but then he fell silent. He could hear rumbling, a constant low drone that shook the ground, and he lowered the phone a bit as he listened—ears trained for anything that could help him.

“Spike?” Greg asked, worry increasing when the Italian didn’t respond. “Spike? Come on, buddy, answer me.”

“Shh,” Spike hushed him, “Just… be quiet for a minute.”

The brunette knew that Greg wasn’t going to obey that order happily, but the line stayed silent and Spike could hear the rumbling a little better. It was off to one side, not just one distinct sounds but a drone of several.

“There’s some sort of machinery nearby,” Spike said back into the phone, “It sounds like construction.”

“That’s great, Spike,” Greg told him enthusiastically, “is there anything else you can pick out?”

Falling silent again, Spike pressed his ear against the wood in the direction the noises were coming from. Hoping and praying, Spike didn’t even breathe or risk moving. Just below the hum of the equipment, there was the heavy, staccato noise of something hitting the ground. It was slow and paced, but Spike’s minds came up with options.

“I think I’m near a logging site,” Spike told them, and the clicks on the keyboard sped up as he heard Winnie talking into her phone, “It sounds like trees falling.”

“Okay, Spike,” Greg breathed, and the bomb tech didn’t want to imagine the tears in his eyes, “we’re coming for you, but you need to stay awake okay?”

“Are you calling me lazy?” Spike joked, but his tone slipped back into a serious tenor, “The oxygen in here’s running really low, and I’m getting lightheaded.”

He knew that they were trying to hide their panic, but he heard Sam swear as both he and Winnie dialed numbers.

“That’s okay,” Greg reassured him but his voice wasn’t steady, “We’re going to be there soon, and you’ll be fine.”

“Got it!” Spike heard Winnie cry, and he went limp against the wooden coffin with a loud exhale. She listed off the address, and Spike listened as there was the sounds of boots clapping against the Barn’s floor and the phone got handed off.

“Hey Spike,” Sam said cheerfully, and car engines started up, “you having fun on your day off?”

“Oh, tons,” Spike replied, rolling his eyes, “I’ve always wanted to be stuck in a box underground.”

“Well, sorry, but we’re going to have to cut your vacation short.” Sam told him, and Spike felt his body complain from the lack of air as a headache pulsed behind his temples.

“Oh no,” the bomb tech deadpanned, voice starting to get hoarse, “so soon?”

Sam paused, and Spike knew it was in response to the weakening of his speech.

“Just...uh,” Sam started, coughing away when his own voice threatened to crack, “save your breath, okay? We’ll be there in about twenty minutes.”

“I’m guessing Ed isn’t going the speed limit?”

“Just focus on staying awake,” Sam ordered, and the authority in his voice shocked him. The humor that had just been zipping through the words vanished, so Spike relaxed against the wood and listened to the sounds of sirens just audible over the speaker.

He went over bomb schematics and updates for Babycakes in his mind, doing everything possible to ignore the thoughts of never seeing his lovers again. He wasn’t sure what hurt worse; his lungs burning his thoracic cavity away or the thought of Sam, Ed and Greg finding him—blue lipped and cold—inside a coffin already stuffed in the ground.

_Don’t think of that_ , he told himself. _C4. Deadman switches. Wires. Sensors. Blue eyes. Warm arms. Early morning kisses._

_They’re on their way_ , Spike reminded himself. _Cars. Sirens. Excavators and shovels. Air air air. Rolled-back eyes. Still chest. Screaming. Body bag._

Shaking himself firmly, Spike squeezed his eyes shut and tried to pull the brakes on his mind as the tool screeched on— _Lou, Mac, Dad…_

He never wanted his lovers to feel the pain of losing a loved one and blaming yourself, not when they were at your fingertips and they slipped away nonetheless.

_You’ll be fine_ , Spike screamed to himself, but it sounded far away and muddled. He wanted to lift the phone up to his mouth and tell Sam and Greg and Ed that he loved them, and that this wasn’t their fault, but his arms wouldn’t move and his eyelids felt too heavy. He could hear the machinery shut down, leaving the ground still and silent, and it was replaced by the high pitched whine of sirens.

This was nothing like falling asleep, not even the lonely coldness when he fell asleep alone was replicated, because he wasn’t sure he was going to wake up. But there’s wasn’t really a fight left in him, and as he heard the loud sounds of voices and equipment above him the world slanted softly and his mind veered away from thoughts violently. Quietly whispering _I love you_ , Spike’s eyes slipped shut and the phone clattered from his grip.

 

* * *

 

Sam didn’t hesitate when the workers pointed out an area of ravaged soil that shouldn’t be there; he simply grabbed a shovel from one of the shocked employees and took off running. The team and several uniforms followed, and Sam shunted the metal into the ground with desperation fueling his motions.

Ed and Greg were right at his sides, and he could hear the paramedics readying for Spike—a thought he didn’t want.

The wood finally came into view after what seemed like hours of digging, and it only took a few more seconds to uncover the lid enough to lift it.

Sam laid down in the dirt, not caring that mud was getting all over his gear, and hooked his hands onto the casket before hauling the top up with a grunt.

His heart stopped.

Spike was lying perfectly still, eyes shut and skin deathly pale, and there was the beginnings of blue tinging his lips. He was still in his pajamas, and the cold air rushed in from the Canadian fall making the bomb tech’s skin prickle even if the man himself didn’t give a reaction.

Not waiting another moment, Sam slid down into the coffin—careful to not step on his comatose lover. It took some maneuvering, but Spike was one of the lightest team members so even as dead-weight he wasn’t that hard to lift. It took a little bit more effort to raise the man up towards where the team was, but several pairs of hands grabbed the bomb tech and hauled him the rest of the way up—and within seconds Spike was flat on his back on a stretcher with a woman doing CPR and a man strapping a mask across his mouth and nose.

Jules and Greg reached down, each grabbing a hand and helped Sam out of the casket as he scrambled onto the earth—just in time to see the ambulance rocket down the trail.

 

* * *

 

The day and the night was a blur of coffee and doctors, as they put Spike in the ICU and watched for possible brain injuries. Sam and Ed were camped out on a small sofa in the hospital room, and Greg had taken up the station next to Spike’s hospital bed—a tiny faux leather reclining chair.

Within 24 hours the doctors gave them the all clear, said to just keep an eye on their partner and go home.

They said he was extremely lucky, that even ten more minutes might have meant that Spike wouldn’t have woken up, that the damage would have started and the possibility of brain death would have become some hushed worry between the doctor and the patient’s loved ones.

Greg watched as Ed and Sam packed up their stuff, and he pushed Spike into the wheelchair when the younger man tried to escape out the door—grumbling about how he was fine and could walk on his own. Then he looked towards the window, the bright blue sky over Toronto lighting the room and spilling across the tiles.

_Thanks for keeping him safe, Lou._

Then they left.

 

* * *

 

“You’re staying in this bed until we say so,” Sam said, muffled, into Spike’s throat from where he was wrapped around the brunette, “You just got out of the hospital yesterday—you’re going to lay there and Ed’s going to make breakfast. And then we’re going to cuddle and nap and cuddle some more.”

“But Sam—,” Spike pouted, but he was silenced with a kiss. Greg walked back in from the shower and laughed at the scene—Sam covering their younger lover like an octopus and showering his face with wet kisses as the bomb tech squirmed.

“Greg, help!” Spike cried dramatically, lightly thrashing his limbs but keeping his eyes glittering playfully.

“Nope,” the negotiator chuckled, “Like Sam said, you’re staying in that bed until we say so.”

Spike could only pout.


End file.
